


just physically obsessed

by pumpkinless



Series: make me feel [3]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Fraternity, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Come Eating, Dirty Talk, Explicit Sexual Content, Frat Boy Shiro (Voltron), M/M, Public Sex, Shower Sex, Size Kink, basketball shorts dick, dealing with feelings through sex, thirst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-24
Updated: 2018-07-24
Packaged: 2019-06-15 10:08:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,426
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15410598
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pumpkinless/pseuds/pumpkinless
Summary: Keith goes to the gym to work off some of his frustration from Friday's "date." Shiro derails that plan.





	just physically obsessed

**Author's Note:**

> i need to thank 3 people for this fic:
> 
> hannah @[eternal-heatstroke](http://eternal-heatstroke.tumblr.com) for editing and enabling and just generally reminding me that i enjoy writing  
> ariana grande for the title and 1/2 of my writing soundtrack  
> my cat for sitting on my chest while i wrote so i couldn't get up and just had to write 4k in one day instead
> 
> please enjoy and know that i had to stare god in the face and walk backwards into hell while writing/tagging this

Keith hears about it through the Holt grapevine. At like eight in the morning on a Sunday. Attacked in the safety of his dorm room.

Only Pidge.

“Shiro thinks you only want him for his body, and he won’t stop bitching to Matt who won’t stop bitching to me, and if you don’t _fix this_ I’m going to murder you for getting me involved and making Shiro tell Matt who told me things I _never fucking wanted to know_ about you in bed.”

He does not understand a single word out of Pidge’s mouth, but she looks ready to shoot on sight. Keith is so tired from studying and texting late into the night, but Pidge hasn’t had anything approaching tact or consideration for appropriate waking hours since Keith met her at freshman orientation. Her overly bright eyes say she’s been up all night and is already overly caffeinated, so Keith tries to prepare himself.

“Um,” he says, brain trying hard to make thoughts happen.

She repeats for him, slower, and it finally gets inside Keith’s head and knocks around a little, waking him up faster than a cup of coffee.

“Shiro talks about me?” Keith asks, sleep-stupid and confused. “What does he—”

“No. Absolutely not. My ears have been defiled and I won't have my mouth go through the same.”

Keith rubs at his eye and finds a line of dried spit that somehow has gone up his cheek instead of down. That's not hot. Neither is the way Pidge shoulders past him to sit down in her usual spot at his desk with her laptop, clearly intent on staying awhile. He doesn’t know why she insists on hanging out in his room so often, considering her scholarship covers a single room. Keith’s roommate, dead asleep and starfished on top of the covers, doesn't even twitch.

“Coffee?” Keith asks, because he can’t do this without it. Pidge nods in the affirmative.

He tugs on a t-shirt before making his way to the little nook of a dorm kitchen on his floor, bag of coffee grounds and two mostly clean mugs in hand. While he waits for the coffee to percolate, he checks his phone. He doesn't have any new messages, which isn't surprising, but he remembers texting Shiro before bed. Shiro hadn't let on that he was frustrated or upset, at least not when he was saying shit like this:

_yeah just like that u know i want tomake u beg for me_

_fuck babe love ur mouth drivng me crazy_

Keith blushes to read his own words after that, too incriminating in the cold light of day for him to stomach. But god, last night he had just been—so fucking horny and stressed from too much homework. And maybe he didn't have enough time to catch the bus to the frat house for something more physical but he had plenty to ask Shiro how his own Saturday was and then promptly ignore the answer in favor of asking _are u hard right now?_

His thirst is just embarrassing. Even more embarrassing than Shiro’s instantaneous shirtless, headless bathroom selfie and the text: _i am now_

It’s not that Keith _only_ wants Shiro for his body. That would be a gross reduction of his intentions, here, especially after he apparently _went on a date with Shiro in his frat house_ two days ago.

Keith can’t be blamed for not knowing. First of all, Shiro never said the word date at any point the whole Friday up until the very end. Second, they were at Shiro’s frat house—hardly the sort of place anyone expects to have a date anyway. Third, Shiro did kind of proposition him when he called Keith to ask him over in the first place. Fourth—

Well, Keith hasn’t come up with a fourth point yet, but he’s thought the first three very, very loudly to himself, repeatedly, since fleeing the frat house. He doesn’t remember what exactly he said to Shiro—the whole thing is just sort of a black mark in his memory now—but Shiro doesn’t seem mad at him, judging by the texting that’s still going on, so at least they’re on decent terms.

Decent terms. God, is that what he’s calling a phone full of increasingly thirsty and incoherent texts sent while Keith jerked himself off quickly underneath his blankets before his roommate came back from whatever hellscape he wandered off to?

Well. At least Shiro doesn’t hate him, right?

Keith scrolls back to the bottom of the messages and winces. The last one, from Shiro, simply reads: _good night <3_

***

Despite the fact that he feels like death, Keith drags himself to the gym in hopes that if he spends enough time swinging at a punching bag he won’t feel quite so much like punching someone else. He leaves his gym bag in one of the public lockers and stretches in a tucked away corner of the gym, facing the wall as he tries to breathe and put himself into an appropriate mindset.

Thoughts of Shiro keep sneaking in though, for no reason that Keith can come up with. Not even good thoughts —hot ones, he means—just ridiculous stuff like Shiro helping Keith put on his coat or sweeping broccoli from the counter into the fridge without judgement. It’s all so much less confusing now in light of that final revelation; it was never a booty call at all, despite Keith’s dedication to making it so.

And shouldn’t that be less alarming? Keith bends to touch the ground between his feet, relaxing his spine and the backs of his thighs as he leans into the stretch.

Should be and _is_ are two very different things, Keith decides in a fit of pique. He finishes stretching with more vigor than is really necessary and spins around just to curse his entire life from the moment of his birth. Now he wants to punch himself.

Shiro is there, because of course he is, shirtless and in basketball shorts that hang indecently low on his hips. He’s on the phone, laughing at whatever the person on the other end is saying, and Keith’s eyes zero in on the sweat shining on his collarbone, his pecs, and his thick, beautiful arms, in that order. Blood rushes through his ears and Keith immediately forgets that he’s supposed to be mad—or something—at Shiro right now. He can’t be mad at anyone who looks like that, positively glistening in the late morning sunlight pouring in through the gym’s floor to ceiling windows.

Keith plants a foot more firmly behind him and pretends he didn’t almost fall over because Shiro lifted his left arm above his head and it made the muscles on his side stand out in a way that can only be called obscene.

This is what temptation is like.

Shiro turns; their eyes meet. This is about to go south so quickly.

A grin splits over Shiro’s face and he waves at Keith. He says into the phone, “No, man, I told you, I can’t do Tuesday because Guy Fieri has a shark week special that evening. Look, just schedule it for whenever, I gotta go.”

_Shit,_ Keith thinks. His stomach does somersaults, spiteful.

Shiro ends the call and slides his phone into his pocket—without Keith’s permission, his eyes follow the movement and hungrily trace all the places where the shorts grow tight with Shiro’s hand.

“Keith,” Shiro says, walking closer. It’s too late to back away now, but Keith mourns the opportunity. “How are you?”

“Uh, good,” Keith says. By the time Shiro stands in front of him, Keith’s managed to get his gaze up to look Shiro in the eyes instead of in the abs, and a part of him regrets the loss. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”

Shiro smiles brightly and brushes his fingers along Keith’s arm, dragging them down until Keith’s fingers are tangling with Shiro’s in a loose hold. His heart slams in his chest. “I work out here the same time every day,” he teases, “so I think that’s my line.”

“Right,” Keith says. Shiro squeezes his hand, the gentle touch of smooth, warm metal sending Keith closer to death. He raises their hands, Keith’s caught along for the ride, and uses it to tug Keith closer, to slip his free arm around Keith’s waist, to get close enough that Keith can smell the sharp contrast of sweat and Old Spice on his skin. He kisses Keith on the cheek, as if the last time they saw each other Keith didn’t do everything in his power to get away as fast as possible as soon as they both came down from the high of sex. Keith’s heart cracks a little, both for the look Shiro gives him when he pulls back and the lust that zips through him as Keith instinctively puts his hand on Shiro’s side to hold himself steady.

This can’t be happening to him.

“It’s really good to see you,” Shiro says.

“It's only been two days,” Keith says without thinking. Shiro just laughs.

“Still good, though, right?”

The moment narrows down to just this—their arms wrapped around each other, Shiro’s face so close, and those words whispered into the delicate, intimate space between their mouths. Lust rolls through Keith, same as it always does when he’s got Shiro so near, but the softest part of his heart is making itself known.

“Yeah,” Keith breathes, too late, but Shiro’s eyes crinkle at the corners when he smiles. Charming.

“We should work out together,” Shiro says, and he almost manages to make the idea sound romantic. Romantic or not, though, Keith is definitely into the idea as long as Shiro doesn’t put his shirt back on.

Desire puts Keith back on familiar ground, steady for the first time since he saw Shiro’s choice in gym clothes. “You think you can keep up with me?”

Shiro’s answering smirk says it all.

***

Keith may never work out alone again after this.

All Shiro’s focus and concentration is on the weights in his hands, pushing the bar up from his chest repeatedly in a way that emphasizes every single muscle in his upper body. Keith would never drool at this, at least not in public, but it’s a close thing as he watches Shiro’s biceps ripple under the weight.

Always more of a martial artist than a weightlifter, Keith doesn’t know much about this part of going to the gym and he doesn’t have much desire to learn. But apparently, he’s been working out in the wrong part of the gym all these years, because this is a sight to feast on.

With a grunt, Shiro racks the weights and relaxes his body. It’s almost a relief to not have to look at every straining detail of his pecs.

“Are you spotting me or staring at me?” Shiro asks, breathless and looking up at Keith from where he’s flat on his back on the bench. Keith props his arms on the barbell; he tries so hard to look unaffected. Shiro, relaxed out of his arched back pose, has a stomach so flat you could put a perfectly balanced level on it.

Keith’s eyes slip lower, to the hem of his ridiculous basketball shorts. Hip bones, damn. “Do you even play basketball?” Keith asks, teeth worrying his lower lip.

“Hey.” A hand tugs at the drawstring of Keith’s sweatpants, and his gaze snaps to Shiro’s face. “I’ve been known to.”

“You trying to get my pants off there?”

A soft blush fills Shiro’s cheeks, but he shrugs. “Maybe I am.”

Considering, Keith tilts his head. He takes in Shiro’s strong jawline, the faded scar across his nose, the bow of his lips, and he has to admit to himself that it doesn’t sound like the worst idea in the world. The free show already has warmth pricked through with desire churning in the pit of Keith’s belly, and it doesn’t sound like a bad idea at all.

He reaches down, bold, and drags Shiro’s hand back up to the bar. “You’ve still got two sets left,” he says. “Try again later.”

Keith doesn’t miss the shocked hunger on Shiro’s face.

***

“God,” Keith hisses, fingers slipping on Shiro’s shoulders. “Why are you so fucking _hot—“_

Shiro slams him against a row of lockers with a too-loud clatter, shoving his hands up Keith’s shirt to get at bare skin with a hunger that shocks through them. Keith moans, teeth scraping over the skin at the base of Shiro’s neck, the only thing he can reach with both his feet flat on the floor. Shiro forces his mouth into a claiming kiss, so deep and heady that Keith’s soul almost ascends from his body in sheer pleasure.

Neither of them knows what they’re doing. Objectively, they’re both disgusting right now, first from a long stint working at the punching bags, and then from Keith’s offer to spot Shiro while he bench-pressed more than half of Keith’s body weight over and over again, muscles straining with strength that looks effortless on him. Keith doesn’t know a better way to describe Shiro’s body other than thick and strong, and he doesn’t want to waste time trying to find one. Sure, he only got through a part of his planned work out, but the sight of Shiro flexing and asking Keith to watch him do it was just so—so—

It’s frustrating. But Shiro and all his everything is too much to handle, especially when he puts it so blatantly on display, inviting Keith to look with a wink and a subtle shift of his hips when he settled back against the bench.

Keith’s scrabbling turns to clawing when Shiro shoves one huge thigh between Keith’s, forcing him to ride the thick press of it, the pressure so good that Keith completely loses the thread of the kiss. Shiro overwhelms him, one hand slinking down the back of Keith’s loose sweatpants to grab his ass and drag their hips together so close that Keith can feel the long line of Shiro’s dick against his stomach.

Having sex in public wasn’t Keith’s thing until today.

With a broken gasp—Keith doesn’t know who from—their lips finally part, and Keith’s head spins as he heaves in breaths of air. Shiro stares at him, panting, and Keith’s tongue swipes over his swollen lower lip. Shiro’s dark eyes track it.

“We shouldn’t do this here,” he says, but he doesn’t make any move to back away or disentangle himself.

Selfish, Keith grabs Shiro by the back of the head and pulls him down for another sloppy kiss. He can’t get the image of Shiro’s bright, puppyish grin when he spotted Keith from across the gym floor out of his mind; he wants to replace it with this, because whatever _this_ is that they’re doing is less confusing than all the other things that look made him feel.

“I want you,” Keith says—moans, really.

Shiro shakes his head on a groan and buries his face in Keith’s neck, nose pressed to the place where Keith’s pulse hammers out a beat that only happens when Shiro is with him. “We gotta be quick,” he says, “and you gotta be quiet.”

“Is that a challenge?”

Head rising, Shiro tips his forehead against Keith’s. “Never, baby.”

His next kiss is the opposite of fast and quiet. It’s painfully slow, dragging Keith through a slew of thoughts, each dirtier than the last. When he kisses Keith like that, it reminds him of what Shiro did to him two nights ago with Keith on his stomach begging for Shiro’s tongue, asking Shiro to utterly destroy him with pleasure. He wants that again, but it doesn’t sound conducive to their current situation. Unfortunate.

Suddenly, the locker room door creaks open and slams shut, startling them both. Shiro backs away half a step, eyes wide, and Keith tries to hold his breath so the sound of his panting doesn’t ring out to the people laughing at a joke just ten feet away.

An apologetic look slips over Shiro’s face as he shrugs at Keith a little.

 Sorry, he mouths, taking another step back.

It should end there. Keith knows that; Shiro knows that; they’re running out of options.

Keith is so hard, and just seeing Shiro’s bare, heaving chest alone is enough to drive him spare, but if he looks at the full picture that Shiro makes, Keith can’t ignore it. Shiro’s broad shoulders taper into a waist and hips that should be illegal, and his constantly slipping shorts leave nothing to the imagination—Keith’s mouth goes dry just thinking about all the ways he’s taken that cock inside himself, and he knows then that there’s no way either of them are getting out of this locker room without getting off.

“Follow me,” Keith whispers, jerking his head to the side. He slinks back to the showers, little more than cubicles built into the wall with plastic curtains to draw for privacy. Shiro raises his eyebrows at Keith, uncertain.

Keith pushes up onto his toes to wrap his arms around Shiro’s neck and kiss him, both safely ensconced just out of sight of the locker room. Shiro doesn’t resist; he pulls Keith closer by the waist, hands so big they feel like they’ve wrapped themselves completely around, and just the thought makes Keith whimper and grind his hips against Shiro’s.

“Dare you to keep me quiet,” Keith breathes against his mouth. He looks at Shiro, watches his pupils grow huge and dark.

“Get your clothes off.”

Shiro leans on one shoulder and watches Keith undress, stares at his ass while he bends down to untie his shoelaces, and licks his lips when Keith finally stands before him in nothing but his underwear, clothes thrown haphazardly on the bench behind him. Keith’s never been one for voyeurism, not really, but Shiro makes him want a lot of things he’s never really been into before. He maintains eye contact as he pushes down his underwear, watches Shiro refuse to blink or drop his gaze.

“What are you waiting for?” Keith asks.

Shiro tips his head back and closes his eyes with a quiet groan. “Start the shower. I’ll grab towels.”

He books it before Keith can convince him they don’t need to wait that long to start, that towels aren’t really _that_ important. With a sigh, Keith steps over the lip of the shower stall and starts the water, waiting for it to start steaming, washing the sweat from his body. Keith doesn’t have soap or anything, since he never showers at the gym, but he’s not exactly looking for that sort of thing right now.

Keith braces one arm against the wall and finally touches himself, the feeling already so intense that he has to bite back a loud gasp.

He starts when the shower curtain pulls back, but it barely takes half a second before Shiro’s arms are caging him in, his mouth hot on the knob of Keith’s neck at the top of his spine. “Can I fuck you?” he whispers, one hand tracing down the center of Keith’s chest to wrap around where Keith’s hand is already holding his dick. Fuck, why does he have such big hands?

“I’d love that,” Keith says, hips twitching into Shiro’s touch, “but I’m—fuck, I’m not exactly wet and ready to go for your dick.”

“Not even with this?” And Shiro, the asshole, literally dangles a half-full bottle of lube in Keith’s face.

“I don’t even want to know why the fuck you have this at the gym,” he says, too thankful to question it further. Keith snatches the bottle from Shiro and opens the lid. Shiro holds out his fingers dutifully and Keith smears lube all over them, then clutching the bottle to his chest and spreading his legs when he decides it’s enough. “Hurry up.” Eventually, someone is going to come in and find two pairs of shoes sitting outside a single running shower.

“Aw, baby, you know I like to take my time with you, though,” Shiro says, laughing a little.

Keith doesn’t answer.

He can’t answer, really, for a lot of reasons. Number one is that Shiro working two fingers inside his ass is already a lot to deal with. Number two, which is harder to admit to but probably a bigger deal than number one, is that Keith physically cannot handle what it does to him to hear Shiro say shit like that. Like—like he cares or something, like this is something more than a hormone-fueled fuck in the university gym showers

Like he made Keith feel when he dropped the date bomb last time.

Keith pushes all of it out of his mind. He doesn’t want to think about that right now, just wants Shiro to take him like this. Dirty, ill advised, and desperate is all he needs. Maybe he is only in this for Shiro’s body, fine, but as much as Shiro plays nice and sweet and caring, he’s as filthy as Keith is and here for the exact same reasons. He’s the one with lube in his gym bag, the one stretching Keith with three thick fingers and whispering that he knows how much Keith likes to get fucked but he’s gotta stay quiet this time, if he really wants it. Shiro is the one pressing his cock inside, hands greedy all over Keith’s skin.

The first push inside takes Keith’s breath away—something about the position does it to him, he’s plenty stretched, but it’s more intense when he can only spread his legs so far. He pants like an animal, cheek mashed into the wall with both hands curled into fists to try and reign himself in.

“You good?” Shiro asks.

Keith nods, tries to get his suddenly dry mouth back in working order. “Yeah,” he says, ragged. “God, that’s so—”

Shiro grinds deeper inside, and Keith snaps his mouth shut on the noise that wants to come out. Shiro’s hands squeeze at his hips and Keith has to fight back the hope of perfect, beautiful finger-shaped bruises lingering over his hipbones tomorrow, blooming dark against his skin. He shouldn’t want that accidental sign of ownership or the one Shiro is slowly but steadily marking into the base of his neck, just below where a T-shirt collar would fall.

He fucks Keith slow and rough, enough to keep the sounds they can’t help silenced under the spray of water. Keith doesn’t know if there’s anyone left in the locker room anymore, but he’s biting at the meat of his palm to keep quiet. It’s so hard.

It’s hard, but it’s manageable, right up until Shiro finds his voice again.

“You feel so good,” Shiro says, low, almost too quiet for Keith to hear. “The sounds you make trying to be quiet—so desperate for me, fuck.”

Keith finds room in his spine he didn’t know he had, pushes his ass back hard on Shiro’s next thrust, and sees sparks at the edges of his vision. Shiro grunts in surprise, so Keith does it again and again until Shiro’s hands are finally making themselves useful and _pulling_ Keith back onto Shiro’s cock, dragging him back and forth, putting him just where Shiro wants him, and that’s Keith’s undoing.

His foot slips and he steadies himself on the wall with the hand he had been using as a silencer just as Shiro slams forward, his roughest stroke yet, and a moan just punches its way out of Keith’s chest.

They freeze. Keith wishes he could say he didn’t find the whole thing hot as hell.

“We can’t have that happen again,” Shiro says, suddenly sounding so nasty that Keith’s toes curl on the tiled floor beneath him.

Shiro’s right hand trails a slow but steady path up Keith’s chest, fingers tracing his jugular before he finally clamps it tight over Keith’s mouth. Keith moans, but like this, it can’t escape his throat, trapped by the thickness of Shiro’s palm. “Yeah?” Shiro asks, and Keith nods his head frantically, clutching at Shiro’s wrist as if to press Shiro’s hand tighter against him.

“Can’t believe how much you want it,” Shiro murmurs in his ear, grinding his hips up and in. “You’re _so_ good for me like this, take just what I give you.” He sighs into Keith’s ear, noses at his wet hair, cleaves Keith into pieces.

Keith can’t stop himself from moaning, now, and whimpering, but Shiro’s hand is steady, keeping everything locked inside. His feet keep shifting, searching for a position he can’t find, and Shiro takes him apart with every touch, every harsh breath, and every nip of teeth to the back of Keith’s neck. This is the most animalistic they’ve ever been. Keith’s eyes threaten to roll back in his head at how good it’s going to feel to have Shiro’s come dripping down the insides of his thighs after this, how much he wants to push fingers back inside of his body when they’re done just to feel how wet and open Shiro has left him.

A terrible, wretched, high-pitched scream wrestles its way out of Keith’s lungs. His hand falls to his dick before he can help it, jerking himself to the image of Shiro watching him finger himself after sex. He wants it, almost too much, but the desperation swirling through him won’t let the image lie.

Shiro groans when he notices, burying his forehead in the crook of Keith’s neck and fucking into him even harder—at this point, Keith can’t imagine they’re being all that quiet or secretive, but he couldn’t give a shit right now if he tried. “That’s so good, fuck, yes,” Shiro says, licking a wide swipe up the side of Keith’s throat just to taste his skin. “I can’t believe you, so hot, I’m—”

That’s all it takes for Keith; he comes hard, entire body shaking as his eyes squeeze shut. The feeling of Shiro holding even tighter to him is secondary to the pleasure claiming Keith’s body and mind, something about the illicit nature of everything that just happened forcing him to feel every rolling wave like it’s the first.

Keith comes back to himself to find Shiro still and panting against his neck, the hand covering Keith’s mouth slipped down to rest at the base of his throat. He feels empty without Shiro inside him. The feeling of shock lingers in the air, like neither of them knows what to make of it.

“Wait,” Shiro says, sudden in the silence. “Can I—last time, I mean, I wanted—but—”

Confused, Keith blinks—is Shiro not making sense or is Keith just too fucked out to understand?

A hand drifts to Keith’s ass, and he still doesn’t understand exactly what it’s asking, but he can’t find it in himself to care. “Go ahead,” he mumbles, half incoherent, but it seems to be enough. Shiro’s weight falls away from his back, making room for the hot water to stream down his body, and it takes Keith far too long to notice that Shiro is on his knees. Then there are hands prying Keith open, exposing something so private he can’t believe Shiro is looking right at it, and then a tongue, dragging up the inside of Keith’s thigh until it reaches—it—

Motherfucking hell.

It’s like the last time Shiro did this, except a million times hotter, for some reason. It’s every dirty fantasy Keith has ever had but never had the courage to do more than talk shit about, and here’s Shiro, kneeling on the floor of a locker room shower, like he doesn’t have anywhere else to be.

If Keith hadn’t just come, this might be the only thing he needed to push him over the edge, but as it stands, the sparks of arousal it draws out are only a pleasant, tingling warmth. Keith sighs into the feeling, finds himself pushing back against Shiro’s tongue as Shiro patiently and sloppily cleans him up. His tongue is dangerous like this.

When Shiro finally drags himself back up, Keith is melted against the wall like he just got a full body massage. He turns around to look at Shiro, ridiculous white fluff of hair plastered to his forehead with water and a happy expression on his face.

“Was that okay?” he asks, crowding closer so Keith has to tip his head up to see him. He’ll never get over this height difference.

“Yeah,” he answers, honest.

He tugs Shiro down for a kiss, light and shallow, one that’s more about sharing breath than anything.

“You’re crazy,” Shiro says, tugging on a strand of Keith’s hair. “Completely crazy. A locker room.” He shakes his head, smiling. Keith thinks suddenly that he’s probably supposed to want to get away from this embrace, but he can’t quite make himself. He likes how Shiro’s looking at him like that. Even more, he likes how the slide of Shiro’s skin against his own soothes his post-sex overstimulation.

“You went along with me,” he says, tilting his head to the side. He studies the glint in Shiro’s eyes and doesn’t know what to make of it, but he decides Shiro’s face is handsome and it’s nice to be so close to it in a quieter moment.

“What can I say,” Shiro offers, “I like your crazy ideas.”

Keith snorts. “Thanks.”

They study each other for a moment more until Shiro pulls back. “I brought body wash,” he says. “Can I?”

And Keith doesn’t understand what this is. He doesn’t know what it is that Shiro is after here, and he looks hopeful, but there’s a guardedness to it that Keith thinks he put there, since he doesn’t recall that look from any of their past encounters.

He nods.

***

Shiro peeks his head around the shower curtain before either of them step outside, smelling like some cloying version of pomegranate and mango that makes Keith desperately miss his off brand, scentless soap nestled safely in his dorm.

They split to go to their separate lockers on opposite sides of the room, and when Keith is finally standing in his towel with no one else looking at him, he tips his gaze up to the ceiling and shakes his head. This is madness, all of it, but he can’t work past how good his body feels right now, the pleasure still humming in his veins. It’s absurd how good he feels after what was, in retrospect, probably the shortest fuck they’ve ever had.

(He doesn’t admit to himself that the reason why it’s lingering so long isn’t about the sex at all, but what happened after—the touching, Shiro’s whispers and hushed laughter, the way he rubbed soap into Keith’s skin and invited him to do the same in return. Keith has never been so deliberate about how he put his hands on another person’s body.)

He exits the locker room to find Shiro there waiting, texting on his phone, but he greets Keith with a bright smile.

“I forgot to ask,” Shiro says, falling into step with Keith like they do this all the time. “My house is throwing a party on Thursday. Wanna come?”

Keith trips over nothing, catching himself on Shiro’s shoulder. “Um.”

“No pressure!” Shiro hurries to say, covering Keith’s hand with his own. His big, sincere eyes are overwhelming. “It would just be . . . nice to hang out.”

“You’ve got such a weird definition of hanging out,” Keith says, his mouth running away from him. “Is it because you’re in a frat?”

Shiro laughs. “Well, you have a weird definition of answering questions,” he retorts, smiling to ease the sting. “What do you say? Wanna get to know me and dance a little?”

Keith may not have the first clue what it is he’s doing here, but looking at Shiro in his post workout track pants and the usual backwards hat firmly ensconced on his head, he finds he no longer cares. Maybe it’s the endorphins or the bruises he can feel forming on his hips, possessive and dangerous to think about. Maybe it’s the fact that Shiro is still only wearing a tank top and the thickness of his biceps is blinding.

Maybe it’s a lot of things.

“Yeah,” Keith says, looking straight ahead because he doesn’t dare catch the look on Shiro’s face. “Yeah, I’ll be there.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading, join us next time for frat house date #2!
> 
> [tumblr](http://disloyalpunk.tumblr.com)


End file.
